


Forgiveness

by eveningsoother (WhichWolfWins)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Porn, Did I say angst?, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Heavy Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 06:40:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5406830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhichWolfWins/pseuds/eveningsoother
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“To err is human; to forgive, divine." -Alexander Pope</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forgiveness

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this a few years ago, let it sit in my drafts and forgot about it. Finally, it was found again and now I've given it an ending.  
> Please forgive me!

Seeing him jump, watching him plummet to the ground, seeing him still, checking his pulse, finding nothing. He witnessed all of this, yet it was seeing the headstone with Sherlock’s name on it that made John Watson finally admit to himself that this new reality he was living in, the one without Sherlock in it, just might actually be real.

He wondered what Sherlock might think of the black headstone. John thought it was quite fitting, actually. It somehow managed to portray the mysterious, beautiful dead man whose body lay 6 feet under John’s feet. 

The thought made John’s legs feel weak and he stepped toward the stone. There was a lump in his throat and he struggled to take a breath as he reached out to touch it, to feel that it was, in fact, there. It was cold to the touch. Cold like Sherlock must be tucked away in the Earth with nothing but a coffin and silk lining to keep him warm. 

Upon his brother’s death, Mycroft had paid a visit to the Army Captain to let him know that if John wanted, he could plan his brother’s funeral. John had shaken his head at the man who he’d come home to find standing at the window, peering out onto Baker Street like he belonged. John had shaken his head. 

“I can do it,” he’d said. He’d been unsure about which one of them it would be left up to. Upon hearing Mycroft’s offer, he’d finally been given the permission to plan the funeral of his best friend. 

And that’s exactly what John Watson did. He picked out the casket with the rich red-brown mahogany that looked like Sherlock’s hair under the sunlight. He’d picked the headstone and the engraving. He’d immersed himself wholly in the planning. 

John knew exactly what he was doing. He was denying the truth of the matter, but he was growing quite used to that by now. After all, since Sherlock’s death, somehow his limp had come back. Worse than before, this time. He struggled to get out of bed like a man twice his age. Then again, the drinking probably didn’t help. 

He had been comfortable with the denial; he’d drowned himself in it happily. But now, lightly touching the stone marking his best friend’s grave, his head bobbed out of the water and he gasped for air. This was really happening. 

John had never really understood why people spoke to gravestones before. Standing there now, though, John knew why. He needed to say something. It had been floating just at the surface since he’d felt for Sherlock’s pulse. 

“Just one more miracle, Sherlock,” he said. “For me.” Christ, what a selfish man he’d become. But he’d been so spoiled, so fortunate to have Sherlock for as long as he had, and he would never be willing to give that up - he had admitted that to himself a long time ago. “Don’t be... dead. Would you do that for me? Just stop it. Stop this.” 

He stopped himself before he could say anymore. He didn’t want to cry - he hadn’t let himself before and he certainly wasn’t going to start now. He didn’t want to break down and lay on top of Sherlock’s grave like he wanted to - to wait for death to take him, too. Death certainly couldn’t be any worse than this, whatever this was he was doing. Living. Sherlock had been right all that time ago. Breathing… Breathing was boring, and Christ, it bloody hurt. 

John Watson clenched his jaw. He stood up straight, he turned around, and he walked away from Sherlock Holmes. 

The flat was quiet. No bouncing of a ball off the walls, no gunshots, no “John, I’m bored” groaned from the corner of the sofa. Sherlock’s violin sat untouched in the corner of the living room collecting dust. 

After reading all his entries on his blog for the millionth time, John finally decided to retire. He took the dredges of his tea into the kitchen and placed his cup in the sink, then headed to his room. 

John stripped off his oatmeal cable-knit sweater and undid his belt. He stepped out of his jeans and paused in front of the mirror. He trailed his fingers over the scar tissue from his bullet wound. It seemed so long ago now. Everything before Sherlock seemed like such a distant memory. 

Sherlock stood in the mirror behind him, watching him in the mirror like that was a normal thing to do, watch ones naked flatmate.John sucked in a breath. He’d been seeing him everywhere and, after awhile, he’d gotten used to it. Just another brick in the barrel. He met the eyes of his best friend and let his hand trail down to his nipple. He passed his fingers over it until it hardened. Sherlock kept his eyes on him, always thinking, deducing. 

John dragged his fingers lightly down passed his belly, pausing only once he reached the waistband of his boxers. His cock already strained at the fabric, just from Sherlock’s eyes being on him. He gripped himself, pre-come dampening the front of his pants. He eased the boxers down and left them in a pool on the floor as he turned around to face Sherlock. 

With just himself and the imagined Sherlock in the room, John slowly backed up toward his bed. When the mattress bumped at his legs, he sank down, his eyes never leaving Sherlock’s for fear that he’d disappear. 

He thumbed the slit of his weeping cock as Sherlock watched, slicking the pre-come around the mushroom head. Sherlock swallowed, his adam’s apple bobbing in his pale throat. There was the ghost of a smile on his cupid’s bow lips. 

“Sherlock,” John groaned. 

Sherlock’s eyes flicked up from John’s cock and met his. “Yes, John?” 

“Please,” he stuttered, gripping his cock at the root. He hadn’t heard Sherlock in so long. Christ, his voice did things to him. He reached with his other hand for the lube in his bedside table and fumbled to squeeze it into his hand. 

“Please what, John?” Sherlock asked, though it was clear he knew what John meant. He was just going to make him ask for it. 

“Stop this.” 

Sherlock was at John’s side in two strides. He sank to his knees without touching John and looked at him with his light eyes. “Stop what, John?” 

John squeezed his eyes closed as a shuddering sob broke from his throat. He brought up his clean hand and pressed his fingers to his eyelids, willing the tears not to fall. One managed to escape down his cheek. “Stop this pain, Sherlock. Stop me missing you. Come back,” John plead. “Please, just come back.” 

Sherlock’s lips on his cheek were feather soft. He kissed the tear lingering on John’s cheek and kept his lips pressed there, breathing John in for the first time since his ‘death’. 

John pulled away and stared up at Sherlock in confusion. He swears- “Sherlock, how can you be touching me? You’re not real.” 

Sherlock gripped John’s knee with his thin fingers. “I’m here, John. I’m real.” 

“You’re dead,” John said, pulling away from him, all his arousal forgotten. “I watched you die.” 

“Really, John? You think that after all this time I wouldn’t know how to fake my own death?” 

“I didn’t doubt that for a second, but I didn’t think you would actually do it. I thought you cared more about me then to fake your own death and not tell me about it,” John snapped. He stood from his bed and went to the armoire where he pulled out a robe. He slid his arms into the soft sleeves then stormed out of the room without another look toward Sherlock. He went to the bathroom and locked the door, then went to the sink to wash the mess from his hands. 

Alone in the bathroom, John braced his hands on the sink and dropped his head, trying to calm himself so he wouldn’t kill Sherlock himself. How could he do this to him, John asked himself, gripping the porcelain sink even tighter. He was supposed to be his friend! 

John clenched his teeth together and lashed out with his fist at the mirror. The glass clattered into the sink and onto the floor around him as he stood there seething. He didn’t even feel the pain in his hand. He probably wouldn’t have noticed he’d been injured if it wasn’t for the bright red of his blood dripping onto the floor. 

“Shit,” John muttered. He studied his hand to make sure it would be safe to remove the shard then plucked the glass out. He turned on the sink and shoved his hand under the running water while he dug around for the first aid kit under the sink, avoiding stepping on any glass. 

After applying an ointment and putting on a band-aid, John left the bathroom. 

Sherlock was standing at the window, peering out at the city under the moonlight when John walked in. He crossed the room to stand behind him and wrapped his arms around him, pressing his lips to the back of Sherlock’s neck. 

“I missed you,” John said against the nape of his neck. “You don’t know how much I’ve missed you.” 

Sherlock turned in his arms and met John’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. 

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck and pulled him down into a hard kiss. He held him tightly against himself. If it hurt, it had to be real, he told himself. He pulled away and quickly pressed in again, kissing even harder. He forced Sherlock’s lips open and met his tongue with his own. He trailed his hands down and dug his fingers into Sherlock’s hips as he tugged him toward the bed. 

The army doctor shoved Sherlock down onto the mattress and quickly began tearing off Sherlock’s clothes, starting with his shiny shoes, black socks, then working open his belt to pull off his jeans. 

He shed Sherlock’s coat and dropped it on the floor beside his own robe, then tore open Sherlock’s shirt - he couldn’t be bothered with the buttons. 

When Sherlock was finally naked, John flipped him over so that he was laying on his stomach. He dropped kisses onto Sherlock’s shoulder blades, peppering in a trail of bites down to his arse cheeks. 

“Are you su-” John started to say as he brought his finger to Sherlock’s entrance, but his words were lost as Sherlock let out a loud moan. He shuddered beneath him on the bed, gripping the sheets so hard his knuckles were white. 

Sherlock was gasping for breath and John stilled his ministrations, worried that Sherlock might pass out. Seeing Sherlock like this, John no longer felt angry. He reached down and gently turned Sherlock over onto his back so he could look at the beautiful man beneath him. 

Sherlock, who had been squeezing his eyes closed, slowly opened them and looked up at John. “Why’d you stop?” he managed to say. His chest started to rise and fall slower as he studied John’s face. 

“I couldn’t bear not seeing you,” John said. He gently pushed apart Sherlock’s legs so that he was framed between them and then kneeled on the mattress. He leaned down with his arms on either side of Sherlock, bracing himself as he leaned down to kiss Sherlock soft and slow. 

Sherlock’s hands came up to grip his back. He dug his thin fingers in to pull John closer. They stayed like that, tangling their tongues in a steady lull, until finally John felt it was safe to move on. Sherlock must have had the same idea, because his hands ran down John’s sides to his hips, where he gripped on tight and thrust their erections together. 

John sat back then and pushed Sherlock’s legs farther apart to find his entrance again. He reached for the lube again and coated the fingers of his good hand with it. They were both virgins at the moment, Sherlock never having had sex and John never having done it this way, so John was gentle as he eased his finger inside. 

Sherlock struggled not to close his eyes against the strange sensation of being filled and instead kept his eyes glued to John’s face. Though John was extremely turned on, his face was soft as he worked his finger inside of him. He was taking extra care not to hurt Sherlock and his lips were slightly parted in concentration. A smile quirked up the corners of Sherlock’s mouth as he watched the man above him. 

In all the time that he’d been gone, all Sherlock could think about was the light gray-blue eyes, peppered blond hair, and oatmeal jumpers that John was made up of. His kind smiles and easy amazement. John was home, and Sherlock had been homesick without him. 

He let out a whimper as John worked in a second finger, and then a third. His eyes had fallen closed and he opened them to meet the concerned eyes of his friend. 

“Are you okay? Should I stop?” 

Sherlock let out a quiet laugh. “Never.” 

John himself laughed as he eased out his fingers, causing Sherlock to frown at the loss of having John inside him. “You’ve lost your marbles, love.” 

Sherlock’s smile fell away and he reached up to cup John by the ears and asked, “do you love me? I know that you have feelings for me, it’s quite obvious considering what we are doing at the moment, and I know that you care about me, because I see how worried you get when I’ve been hurt, but I’m not sure if-” 

John silenced Sherlock by pressing a kiss to his lips. He worried again that his friend might pass out. It couldn’t be good talking that long on only one breath. He kept his lips sealed to Sherlock’s until the other man relaxed underneath him. 

“I love you,” John told him. While Sherlock had been “dead”, John had spent a lot of time thinking about the other man. Hurting from losing him. Aching for him. And he realized that it had to be love. 

“Okay,” Sherlock said. 

John looked down at Sherlock a moment longer, waiting for… something... Something that made him frown. Sherlock clenched his eyes closed and when he relaxed them, John was at ease again as he reached for a pillow and lifted Sherlock up to rest comfortably on it before he steadied his cock against his entrance. 

He slowly eased inside of Sherlock, watching Sherlock’s face as he winced and held his breath. John didn’t stop until he was buried inside of him. 

“You okay?” he asked softly. 

“Mhmm,” Sherlock nodded with his eyes closed. “Continue.” 

John eased himself back out again and then slid back in a little faster. He kept a dragging pace until Sherlock’s eyebrows were no longer bunched together and his lips parted. He slid out and pressed back in faster to see what Sherlock would do and the other man gasped in surprise as John hit his prostate. His eyes flew open. 

“Again,” he urged. He gripped John’s hips the best he could to pull him in deeper. John thrusted in at the same time Sherlock rose up to meet him and the slow pace became too much. He gripped Sherlock’s thighs and started pistoning into him. 

The familiar tightening up in his abdomen told John that he was nearly there. The moans Sherlock was making let him know that Sherlock was close, too. John dropped one of Sherlock’s legs and lifted the other up to his shoulder so he could go even deeper. With his free hand he reached for Sherlock’s weeping erection. 

He used the pre-come to slick up his cock and started working Sherlock, matching the pace of his hand to his thrusts. 

“John,” Sherlock panted, his eyes tightly closed. 

Just hearing that made John speed up even faster. “God, yes.” 

Sherlock moaned, gripping John’s hips tightly as he came all over their stomachs in hot ropes. John leaned over him, thrusting sharply into him before he followed suit, calling out Sherlock’s name as he came deep inside of him. He rode out his orgasm seeing stars until he couldn’t hold himself up any longer and tumbled onto the bed beside his friend. His lover. His… there had to be a better name for what he was to him. 

They struggled to collect themselves for a moment, coming down together from their highs, then John pushed himself up off the bed and went to the bathroom. Sherlock lay there waiting, but John never came back. 

Sherlock blinked at the curtain where the light from the moon glowed behind a thin curtain, the only thing visible in the small, cold room he lay in. He sighed and turned away toward the invisible wall in front of him, thoughts of John leaving him restless. He would be home soon, a week in counting, and then he would be able to see John again. He would finally have the chance to tell him all the things he’d realized while he was away, particularly the part where he never wanted to be without him again. Without John, he felt like he was going mad. Sherlock closed his eyes. 

In the dark of his room in 221B, he felt John sidle up behind him and smiled as John tucked his forehead against his shoulder blades. 

“Goodnight, love,” John murmured, pressing his lips to Sherlock's skin. "Sweet dreams."

**Author's Note:**

> If you have a moment, please leave me a comment and let me know what you thought!
> 
> If you'd like to follow me on tumblr, you can find me here!


End file.
